A/N: Standard disclaimers apply (ie, any character you recognize is probably owned by someone other than me.) Mog created the ATF AU, and many thanks to her for doing so and allowing others to write in her world. Thanks to Dail and Jackie, and to Wendy and Charlotte for the beta. Any other mistakes, misuse of commas, etc, are my own. This story is also archived at AO3 and is being resubmitted here for planned continuation of the series.
Land of Confusion
By Sue Kelley sknkodiak
Mag 7 ATF A/U
3rd Story in The Domino Effect
Follows "Offers" and "Still Moon"
I remember long ago-
Oh when the sun was shining
Yes, and the stars were bright
All through the night
And the sound of your laughter
As I held you tight,
So long ago
This is the time,
This is the place
So we look for the future
But there's not much love to go round
Tell me why, this is a land of confusion
Lyrics from "Land of Confusion" from the Genesis album "Invisible Touch" 1986
Michael Rutherford/Phillip Collins/Anthony Banks
CHAPTER ONE
Buck stared at the computer screen in frustration. He typed in his password, with just one finger this time, careful to put in every letter and number. Houston9y14m. ATF policy mandated computer passwords change every three months. Denver Team Seven policy was even stricter. All seven of them changed their passwords after every case or every four weeks, whichever came first. They didn't even write their passwords down-well, not at the office at least. They had a rivalry going: if JD, their computer genius, could figure out a password, the offending party was penalized $100.00. The money went into a jar Chris kept locked in a drawer and at the end of the year the team would decide which charity to donate it to. JD laughingly insisted he should be the charity, since he did all the work, but he was kidding and last year, they'd donated the money to help build a playground in the depressed Purgatorio section of Denver, near where Vin lived and the mission Josiah volunteered at.
Much to Buck's chagrin, he was the one that had donated the most money last year. It was a good cause, that didn't bother Buck at all, but he was embarrassed at how easily JD could violate his passwords. He'd been a damn Navy SEAL! Not to mention a policeman and 2IC of the team. Buck knew about cyber security. Of course, JD lived in his condo and JD probably knew more about him than anybody besides Chris, but still…He'd tried totally random sequences of letters and numbers, only to discover he couldn't remember them.
So he'd started linking his passwords to things in his past that JD didn't know about or didn't know much about. His latest password Houston9y14m referred to the fact he'd lived with his mother in Houston for 14 months when he was nine years old.
Even Chris, whom he'd known since his senior year in high school, didn't know how much moving around Buck and his mom had done before they'd ended up in Las Vegas. JD sure didn't. It wasn't something Buck talked about.
So his password should be secure. But, as he hit the enter key again, the same message flashed on his monitor. Access denied. Incorrect password. Please retry or contact IT.
He cussed under his breath, glancing around the office. No one seemed to be paying any attention to him. JD, at the desk next to him, was texting. Probably firming up plans with Casey for their weekend getaway.
Buck rubbed fingers against his throbbing temples, trying to push away the headache that had plagued him all day and seemed to be worsening by the second. This was the Friday before a holiday weekend. He had a pile of reports to finish before he could leave tonight. It wasn't as if he had big plans-not anymore-but he still didn't want to be here all night.
The password had worked just fine this morning…
If he entered the "wrong" password one more time, his computer would automatically lock up and then he'd have no choice but to call not only IT but also the ATF main office in Washington, DC. 'And won't that just send rainbows blowing out Chris' ass. Not!' There were few things more annoying to Chris Larabee than one of his men screwing up and higher-ups finding out about it.
Right now, Chris was closeted in his office with Vin. Buck had no intention of letting the team leader know he couldn't access his own computer. Things were tense enough between them as it was.
Buck eyed JD again. One way or another, the younger man could fix the problem. All Buck had to do was ask him.
His phone rang. Frowning, he grabbed the receiver. "Wilmington," he barked.
"I need to see you in my office right away. And it's probably for the best you don't mention this to Larabee."
There was a click, and then just empty silence. Buck stared at the phone before replacing it in the cradle. He knew that voice. Even though the caller hadn't introduced himself, he knew it was AD Travis that had just summoned him.
"Wrong number?"
That was Josiah, sitting across the room at his own desk.
"Not exactly," Buck said, standing. All thoughts of the computer problems out of his mind, he glanced at Chris' closed office door. "I'll be back in a few minutes."
"Where you going?" This was JD, his mouth half full of chocolate.
Buck managed a grin. "For coffee, of course. Where else?"
"Right," Nathan snorted. "Since when do you have to leave the office for coffee?"
"Since Vin made the last pot."
JD was in the act of lifting a mug of coffee to his lips, no doubt to wash down the chocolate. He choked, slapping the mug down on his desk so fast the coffee splashed over onto the wood. JD had been trying to drink more coffee and less Coke lately, but he couldn't stomach the black tar cum paint remover Vin Tanner happily produced as coffee.
As the door closed behind him he heard JD protest, "But where're you going?"
7777777
"Agent Wilmington, this is Andrew Griggs."
Griggs was tall, taller even than Buck. He wore a beautifully tailored gray business suit, cowboy boots and a fawn Stetson. It wasn't that unusual to see western clothes in downtown Denver, but still, something about the man just screamed "Texan." Buck knew it even before the man opened his mouth.
"Pleased to meet you." Buck stifled a grin at the accent. Texan, all right.
Travis waved Buck to a seat in the chair in front of his desk. Griggs settled in the one opposite. He leaned forward, meeting Buck's eyes. "Agent Wilmington, I'm here on a mission for my client."
"Your client?" Buck repeated.
"Cletus Fowler."
The name hit Buck like a cement block. He rocked back in the chair. He couldn't say anything.
"I see you know the name," Griggs said dryly.
It had been almost five months since they'd learned Cletus Fowler, an inmate on Texas' death row, had confessed to the murders of Sarah and Adam Larabee. His execution had been postponed twice, but just last week Chris had received word it had been rescheduled for November sixth. Nine days away.
"What are you?" Buck finally could say something. His mouth was dry and he barely recognized his own voice. "His lawyer?"
"I'm an investigator with his lawyer's firm." He paused. "Look, I don't know exactly how to say this so I'm just going to come out with it. Cletus Fowler wants to see you."
"Why would that murdering son of a bitch want to see me?" Buck exploded. "He refused to see Chris—"
"And he still won't see Agent Larabee," Griggs interrupted. "But he wants to see you, Agent Wilmington. He wants to talk to you."
"About what?"
Griggs shook his head. "I have no idea. I assume it has something to do with the Larabee killings. But I don't know for sure. After they announced the date for the execution, he demanded to see you. He wants a face to face, not a phone call. He's insistent about it. It took us days to work out the details with the prison—hell, I thought I was going to have to go to the governor to get it okayed—but it's all worked out now." He paused again. "There's not much chance his execution will be postponed again. And they'll lock the place down the last forty-eight hours before. If you're going to see him you'll have to go before then."
Buck couldn't breathe. His brain seemed frozen, he couldn't even think. Both Griggs and Travis were staring at him, apparently expecting him to say something.
"I realize this is unexpected," Griggs said finally, lamely.
"You can see why I thought it best not to tell Chris," Travis added.
The mention of Chris' name startled Buck into speech. "He's the one Fowler should talk to, not me—"
Griggs shook his head. "Fowler won't go for that. No way. It's you, or it's nobody. Agent Wilmington—"
"Call me Buck," Buck said abruptly. If he heard 'Agent Wilmington' come out of this guy's mouth one more time he'd…well, he'd do something.
"Buck." Griggs nodded. "Folks call me Andy. Buck, I know you from my research. You were Chris Larabee's partner for years. Godparent to his kid. Part of the family, blood kin or not. Fowler hasn't said much about the killings since he confessed. He won't give us any idea who hired him for any of the jobs. And you're the only person he's ever asked to talk to. I know a little something about how Chris Larabee went off the rails when his family was killed. I would think any information would be welcome to him. And this is the way to get the information."
Buck couldn't say anything. His mouth was dry and words would choke him. If he could even think of words to say. Travis made a noise, then stood up to go to a corner cabinet. He pulled out a bottle and some heavy cut-glass tumblers. "Agent Wilmington looks like he could use a drink. I know I could. Mr. Griggs?"
The Texan nodded eagerly.
Travis poured a healthy measure of liquor into each glass. "Technically," he said dryly, "Alcohol is prohibited in a federal office building, but I'm sure I can trust you two gentlemen not to get me in trouble?" He forced the glass into Buck's hand. "Come on, Buck, drink up," he said, more gently.
Buck lifted the glass to his mouth and gulped the liquor down. Later, he wouldn't have been able to say whether he drank vodka or whiskey or tequila, but at least the fiery burn down his throat roused him.
He coughed, clearing his throat. "I don't know what to say." But as he said it, he knew he had to go. It would be hard, sitting across the table from the man that had torn Sarah and Adam away from them, but he had to do it. If there was any chance of learning more information, of knowing the who's and the why's, he had to find it.
7777777
It was late, well after five, by the time Buck got back down to Team Seven's offices, and the building held that peculiar quiet he always associated with Fridays or the last day before a holiday break. Today was both, as Monday was a federal holiday. Since his team wasn't active on a case, they'd all be off. JD had made plans to take Casey away for the long weekend. Not too many months ago that wouldn't have affected Buck—back before they'd heard of Cletus Fowler he'd been basically living at the ranch anyway.
Things were different now.
The lights were on in the big office they called the bullpen, but still, Buck figured everyone had left. Nathan and Raine were going to see her father in New Mexico and Josiah had plans to leave town too. Vin had been trying to talk Chris into taking the horses up into the mountains, camping, maybe some fishing. Ezra had announced in an aggrieved voice-which didn't fool anybody-that he was coming along. Last Buck had heard Chris hadn't committed one way or another but he hoped Vin could talk Chris into it. God knows Chris could use the break. For that matter, so could Buck-a break from Chris.
Buck's holiday plans, at least before the meeting with Griggs and Travis, had focused on sleeping. If Vin could get Chris to go on the camping trip, Buck could maybe sneak out to the ranch and pick up some of his things. Get some more clothes, at least.
He hadn't realized how many of his belongings had migrated out to Chris's place.
He opened the door and immediately saw Vin, sitting behind his desk with his booted feet swung up and resting on Ezra's desk. He lifted an eyebrow. "Ezra sees that and he'll make you suffer."
"Hah. As if! 'Sides, Ezra's down in the parking garage, blocking your pickup."
Buck frowned; that didn't make any sense. "Why?"
"Didn't know where you disappeared to. We were afraid you might just take off without coming by the office. So I stayed here, and he he's in the garage." He nodded at the pile of paper in the middle of Buck's desk. "Chris wanted to remind you he needs that Tuesday morning."
Shaking his head, Buck walked over and eased into his chair. "And I'm sure he said it that politely." He ached all over and, God! Was he tired. Hopelessly, he typed his password into the computer. It had been over two hours since he'd last tried, with any luck the damn thing wouldn't lock up on him. He blinked as the monitor cheerfully announced his password had been accepted and the files he needed were displayed. He looked around his desk. Nothing indicated it was any different than when Travis had called. Seemed like that was days ago instead of just hours. He looked up and spotted Vin's wide grin.
"Okay Tanner, I give. How'd you mess up my password?"
"Weren't me, but I know who did it."
"Not you?"
"Nah," Vin said easily, apparently not upset at all that Buck had suspected him. "Not that it wouldn't have been funny, the right time and place. No, this little prank was all JD's."
"JD? Hell, he was sitting right here the whole time I was trying to get into that damn thing. Why wasn't he dancing around the office demanding the money? And how did he ever figure out my password in the first place. You know, I'm going to one of those random password generator sites. Then see if he can break in!"
He'd meant his voice to be joking. But somehow it had come out pissed and frustrated. Buck never got pissed at JD. Well, hardly ever. And Vin knew it. Vin's big grin had vanished and he was studying Buck carefully.
"Good luck with that one, Buck. You know JD likes figuring out passwords. He thinks it's a game." His voice was gentle. "He wasn't trying to make any trouble for you, you know that. He changed it back before he left. You'd better change it again, though."
Buck typed in the command and the change password box came up. He quickly typed in Jdisaprick100, then stopped before retyping it in to confirm. Leaning back, he sighed. "Was he going to tell me before or after Chris ripped me a new one and fined me a hundred bucks?" He could hear the strident note in his voice and saw Vin's look of concern deepen. He knew he was overreacting about the whole thing-he was all for a good joke himself-but Damn! He was tired of Chris finding fault with everything he did.
"Like I said, bad timing. He meant well, though. Just trying to ease the tension around here. God knows it's thick enough to cut with a dull butter knife." Vin's voice was blunt.
The anger drained out of Buck and he slumped in his chair, dropping his chin and feeling the strain of tight neck muscles. "I know," he muttered. "Sorry."
"You know, it ain't always your job to be Larabee's whipping boy."
Buck couldn't help it, he started laughing. He laughed until he couldn't catch a breath and his head was throbbing like it was stuck in a cement mixer. Vin stood up and strode over to him, shaking him hard by the shoulder. "Buckl!" His face was worried, his tone concerned, and Buck couldn't stop, he just kept laughing until he felt tears on his face and he was lightheaded from lack of air. He could see the alarm on Vin's face, the indecision, and, knowing he was scaring his friend, he waved a hand weakly in the air.
"You don't stop laughing…" he heard Vin say but he couldn't hear the rest of the words.
Finally, finally, slowly he brought himself under control. Gasping for breath, he wiped tears from his face and slowly caught his breath.
"I'm calling Nathan," Vin announced, reaching for the phone.
"Don't," Buck shook his head, reaching around and grabbing a box of Kleenex.
"Chris, then."
Buck dropped the box, reached across the desk and snatched the phone away. "Hell, no!"
"What the hell is going on between you two?"
Buck didn't know how to answer that. Maybe the simplest answer would serve best. "There's nothing going on between us, not anymore."
"That's the problem!"
Buck kept his mouth shut.
Vin's eyes widened. "OK. Look, Larabee is my best friend, but I ain't blind to his-well, what Ez calls his 'personality quirks'. And you're the big brother I never had. So don't try to tell me there's 'nothing' going on. Six months ago you were practically living together, now he rides you like a green recruit and you just go along with it, when you're not going ten miles out of your way to avoid him. When was the last time you've been out to the ranch? JD's been exercising your horse. I know you and Chris have your-" he stopped, seeming to search for the right word. Finally he shrugged and said "-you guys have your spells. But never for this long. I don't care what the party line is; the two of you love each other, and don't give me crap about it being brotherly love. Brothers don't get up to what the two of you get up to."
"We're going through a rough spot. It's happened before." Buck didn't want to talk about him and Chris with Vin. He didn't really want to talk to anyone about it, but especially not Vin. Vin and Chris were close. Chris needed Vin, needed someone to be there for him.
Vin just stared at him.
"Chris is working through some stuff," Buck said. "Do I like that his method involves me as the whipping boy? No. Do I understand it? Yes. Believe me, this is nothing like it has been before." That was both truth and a lie. Chris wasn't drinking himself into a stupor and he hadn't been throwing punches at anyone, including Buck. That was something, at least.
Vin leaned back against his desk. "I've known you guys for three years. I've seen Chris dish it out pretty good. I've seen you give it back just as good. But not this time. You just stand there and take it. And don't tell me you're making it up in the sack because I know damn well you two haven't fucked in weeks. So why is it okay?"
"It's not okay," Buck reputed. "I hate it like hell. I just…understand where he's at right now, in his head." He stepped over to Ezra's desk and rummaged through the top drawer. Trust their migraine-prone undercover agent to have various bottles of headache relief pills there. Buck grabbed a bottle-he didn't check which one-wrestled with the adult-proof lid, and dry swallowed two of the bitter pills. Then he reconsidered and choked down two more.
Vin eyed him. "You look like shit. Where've you been all afternoon, anyway?"
"Travis' office." Buck made up his mind. He hated to drag Vin into this, but he needed some help with this and Vin was the best option. "Look, I need a favor. I've got to go to Texas for a few days,
Vin blinked, obviously startled by the abrupt change of topic. "Texas? Where in Texas? And why?"
"Huntsville. Quick as possible. And I really don't want Chris to know anything about it."
"East Texas. Beautiful country if you like cattle and pine trees and deer and-Huntsville Prison. Texas' Death Row." Realization swept over Vin's face. "You're going to see that Fowler guy. But I thought—"
"He's asking to see me. But not Chris. He wants to talk to me. But y'know Chris. If he finds out…"
Vin snorted. "He alternates between snapping at you and ignoring you, but he's sure gonna notice if you're all of a sudden not here. How you going to get around that?"
Buck forced a smile. "All you have to do is keep quiet and get Chris out on that camping trip. We're off Monday, and I'll be back Monday night. Tuesday morning, at the latest. Chris will never know I'm gone until I'm back."
Vin snorted. "And how do I explain you not coming on the camping trip with us? He's expecting you."
Buck couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice. "I wasn't planning on going anyway. And I doubt he'll give a damn."
CHAPTER TWO
When Buck was younger, he'd thought flying was a treat. He was on UNLV's basketball team in college and had always loved it when they traveled to away games by airplane. The novelty wore off when he was in the Navy and now, with the smaller seats and longer waits, not to mention the security checks, flying was a necessary evil, not something to look forward to.
He got a flight to Houston on Saturday afternoon. His appointment at the prison wasn't until Monday, but he had no reason to hang around Denver and every wish to avoid Chris, so he cashed in some frequent flyer miles and managed to wrangle himself a first class ticket, since he was traveling in the middle of the holiday weekend.
The first class ticket was almost a necessity. Buck was six-four and cramming his long legs into the limited legroom allowed in coach was agony. Even first class was uncomfortable-he had one knee that was starting to feel from a lifetime of sports and injuries-but far better than the alternative. He skipped the "snack" the flight attendant had offered him and drank plain orange juice with no booze. The way he'd been feeling the last couple of days, he was probably coming down with the flu or something. Seemed like everyone on the flight had it. The woman across from him kept blowing into a tissue and whoever was in the seat in front coughed and sneezed half the flight.
The air had been fresh and chill, about 44 degrees, when he had left Denver; it was muggy, raining and twenty degrees warmer in Houston when he finally emerged from the bustling Bush Intercontinental Airport to find his rental Ford, several brochures of things to see in the Houston area, and a free map. Buck was tired and achy and decided he didn't want to drive the two hours to Huntsville in the pouring rain. Besides, Andy Griggs had warned him the prison was smack in the middle of town. This close to the execution the area was probably crowded with press and protesters, and he didn't want to deal with either.
The street outside the airport was crowded with hotels; just about every chain he could think of was represented. Buck picked one at random and pulled in. The rain was coming down heavily now and water was already pooling in the streets. Houston was notorious for flash floods. By the time he checked in and made it up to his room on the tenth floor, the street he'd just driven down looked more like an angry river. He vaguely thought about going out for something to eat but looked around until he found the room service menu. Dinner service, he read, started at four-thirty. It was only a little after three now so he decided on a hot shower to clean the grime of airports and planes off his skin and hopefully warm him up. His clothes were damp and clammy.
The water pressure was perfect and hot water plentiful. He stood under the pounding spray for long minutes, just enjoying it.
Ezra always insisted on bringing his own toiletries along to a hotel stay and fussed if anyone else used them. Buck didn't care. He made use of the hotel provided shampoo and soap, lathered and rinsed, toweled off and slipped into a clean pair of sweats and a worn t-shirt. Dropping onto the king-sized bed, he sprawled across the width and relaxed. The sinful comfort of the pillow-top mattress reminded him of the new mattress on Chris' bed. Chris had surprised Buck with it one weekend.
777
77
7
Flashback
"What?" Buck exclaimed, laughing, as Chris caught his elbow to keep him crashing into the wall again.
"How many times you been here, Wilmington, and you can't find your way to the bedroom?" Chris taunted.
"Never been blindfolded before," Buck pointed out.
Chris snorted. "You telling me you never found your way to a bedroom in the dark before?"
"I can find you in the dark."
"Well, that's not too hard, since I'm standing right next to you.
"Y'know, Chris, I'm finding this new kinky side of you pretty-"
"Shut up, Buck. OK, we're here now. Close your eyes."
"Okay they're closed."
"You sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure! Come on, Chris, what's the big surprise?"
"Hold on."
Buck felt the fabric knot at the back of his head being untied, and then light behind his closed eyelids as Chris removed the blindfold from his face.
"Okay," Chris said, and was that anxiety in his tone? "You can open your eyes now."
Buck blinked, then focused on Chris. His lover was sitting on the side of the bed…the bed?
"You got a new bed?" This one was larger than the other, wider and higher up off the floor. The old quilt Sarah had inherited from her grandmother was gone, replaced by a blue and green comforter and matching pillows. Glancing around, Buck noted the drapes were new, too, and they were drapes, heavy and full length, and the same pattern as the bedspread.
Chris's eyes never left Buck's face. "Do you like it?" he asked, and, no doubt about it, that was real nerves in his tone.
"It's…beautiful," Buck finally said. Then he looked down. "You got carpet in here?" Luxurious dark blue carpet-a shade just darker blue than blue in the spread and drapes, covered the former hardwood floor.
"Yeah." Chris' face lit up, apparently convinced by Buck's words that he did indeed like the changes. "Here, come here." He reached out and pulled Buck to the bed. "Come on, get over here, lie down."
Buck hadn't seen Chris this excited about something in…well since he'd dragged a heavily pregnant Sarah in to see the nursery they'd just finished. He sat on the bed, and then let his lover shove him into a lying-down position. "Oh," he breathed. "This is nice."
"They called it a pillow top mattress, like in some of the hotels. The old mattress hurt your back. This one should be better. And it's a California king, bigger than the other one."
Buck stretched out and sighed, wiggling his toes. The pillows were great, too, fluffy but firm. The bedstead was dark wood, with wide square posts at all corners and matching tables on either side. The dresser was the same, but there were two new bureaus, matching the bed and tables. He looked around. "You changed the whole room," he said finally.
"I made it our room, Buck." Chris's eyes were intent on his. "Sarah hasn't been here in a long time. It's not my room, either. This is for both of us, you and me. Our room."
Buck smiled slowly. "Our room. I like that."
7
77
777
Buck sighed. They'd thoroughly enjoyed the new room for a couple of weeks, then Cletus Fowler had confessed to killing Sarah and Adam Larabee, among others. For the first months after that he and Chris had clung to each other, trying to be there for each other. Then as Chris realized he might never learn who Fowler's employer was, things had changed. Chris was obsessed, surly, crawling back to that dark place he'd been after the murders. He didn't start drinking again-that was good, and he still managed to do his job. But he needed someone to hate on, and with Fowler tucked securely in his Texas prison and not allowing Chris to see him, it was Buck. They stopped making love, and then when Buck stayed over, most of the time Chris was snide and hostile. Buck stayed at the ranch, at first. Then, as things got more and more tense between them, they didn't even sleep in the same room. The first night Buck woke up in the new bed alone, and then realized Chris had slept on the couch rather than with him, he'd gotten up and just gone back to his condo, totally surprising JD and Casey who had appropriated his bed. He'd asked Chris if he wanted him to come out the next weekend, and Chris had looked at him, then just shook his head. 'Probably better if you don't,' he'd sighed, looking sorry and sad and pissed, all at the same time.
Buck hadn't spent a night at the ranch since. They'd had sex, once in the shower, a couple of times just jerking each other off, but it was just sex, not making love, and Buck of all people knew the difference. He liked no strings sex just fine, but not with Chris. Not after he'd known something different. After awhile, he stopped offering and he and Chris stopped even talking about things. Well, they talked. Chris yelled and Buck yelled back. But now Buck didn't even have the energy to do that. Now he just took it.
It wasn't as if it hadn't been this way before. It wasn't even that Buck hadn't been half-expecting it, ever since that night at the ranch when he'd asked Chris if he'd be satisfied never knowing who ordered the hit on Sarah and Adam, and hadn't gotten an answer.
Buck replayed Vin's words in his head. "You know, it ain't always your job to be Larabee's whipping boy."
Buck didn't consider himself a whipping boy. Why did he take it?
Nothing changed the fact he loved Chris Larabee with all his heart. Even now. Especially now.
Chris had said not too long ago that he didn't blame Buck for the deaths. That their murders weren't Buck's fault.
But Chris hadn't always felt that way. Maybe he still blamed Buck. Because, Buck knew it was his fault. Cletus Fowler might have killed them. But there was blood on Buck's hands as well.
777
77
7
Flashback
It had been sunny and warm in Mexico, but the closer they got to Denver the worse the weather was. It was early evening and Buck was driving, Chris sitting next to him fretting. Tonight was the Autumn carnival at the school Sarah taught at and Chris had promised the little boy he'd be there, that he would take his son all around the carnival rides and attractions. Sarah, as a teacher, would be busy with her own tasks and wouldn't be able to be the four year-old's escort. Originally there wouldn't have been any trouble, but they were returning a day later than expected. The night before, Adam had been desolate on the phone, afraid his daddy wouldn't get there in time. Chris had promised that not only would he be there in time, but also that Uncle Buck would join them for the fun. He'd had to "cross his heart" and "Pinky swear" that he and Buck would make it in time.
Now Chris said, "I shouldn't have promised him that. If we don't make it, he's going to be so disappointed and he'll think I lied to him."
"We didn't know what a big mess it was down there. Wasn't your fault we ended up having to stay."
Chris cut his eyes over at him. "He's four, Buck, remember? I don't think an explanation of the Mexican judicial system is going to be much of a comfort when all he wants is to ride some rides and eat junk food with his two favorite men."
They were driving Sarah's Taurus, because back then, he'd been driving a 1966 Mustang he'd restored as lovingly as he had his "Red Beauty", the old pickup he drove now. And when the Denver weather got too much for the Mustang, or when gas got too high, he'd ridden his motorcycle, a big Yamaha. Chris' truck, a Ford, guzzled gas like an alcoholic needed booze. The DPD only paid 17 cents a mile back then, if you were using your own vehicle for work purposes. Because of that, and because there was no way Buck would drive his prized Mustang into Mexico, he and Chris had opted to take Sarah's Taurus. It was more comfortable on a long trip anyway.
7
77
777
When they'd got down to Mexico-hell, what was the name of that town, Buck could never remember it, although everything else about that week was indelibly etched in his mind-there'd been some kind of snafu. They'd ended up going to another town to pick up the samples and documentation they'd needed to close their case on Pedro "Pete" Perez, a big time crook, paranoid as crazy, who'd decided to go on a killing spree in Denver, shooting half a dozen of his own men, not to mention another three innocent bystanders.
777
77
7
Flashback
Nobody admitted to speaking English at the other police station. At one time Chris had been pretty fluent in Spanish, but he hadn't used more than a few basics in years. And Buck was even less fluent. Waving ID's and badges, along with the Larabee Glare, didn't seem to improve the communication attempts. Finally, Buck managed to come up with the Spanish equivalent of "Take us to your leader." Smiles broke out at that, and the young man they were speaking with responded with a torrent of rapid fire response, of which, somehow, they figured out the man they needed wasn't there and wouldn't be returning until the next day. More fractured conversation ensued and finally, the Denver cops had been directed to a hotel two streets away; the young man had even provided a written note to the proprietor to explain who they were and that they should be treated well. At least, that's what Buck hoped it said. Arriving at the hotel, the manager himself met them, and with smiles and bows, conveyed them to what he said was the best room in the house. It was actually a small suite, with a king sized bed in one room a queen tucked into another. There was a small sitting room between them, boasting a refrigerator, a stocked mini bar, a new-looking TV and Spectacular Ocean views from every window. Given the icy rain and slush they'd left behind in Denver, the 75-degree temperature felt just fine.
Sarah was upset, really upset, when Chris called to tell her that they wouldn't make it home. She understood, she was a cop's wife, but she was also a mother and a teacher. She knew how important the carnival was to Adam. Buck could hear her voice over the phone, she was yelling at Chris, which was so unlike her that Buck quickly went downstairs and out to the beach. He thought he'd give Chris some privacy for the conversation.
He stayed gone longer than expected. It was so calm, so relaxing out on the beach. When he headed back into the room, he had every intention of talking Chris into coming outside with him.
Chris was still on the phone. Buck started to back out of the room, but Chris waved him in. "I'm on hold," he explained. "Trying to get a flight out to Denver tonight."
"Tonight?"
Chris looked over at him. "Sarah's really upset, Buck. Adam's been crying all day, he made himself sick. We won't both make it back, but maybe if I get there…" He looked pleadingly at Buck.
Buck didn't know what to say. He hated the idea of his godson being so devastated, and he couldn't blame Chris for not wanting his wife mad. But there was a reason both of them had been sent down here. Petey Perez still had a lot of friends in Mexico and some of them wanted to see him go free. Buck didn't know how strong the case was in Denver, but the DA had been insistent on sending the two of them.
Chris was watching him. Their eyes met, and then Chris turned away, talking on the phone again. Buck looked up when he heard Chris replace the receiver.
"They have one seat on a flight at eleven."
"You going to leave me all alone with Sarah's car?" Buck meant it to sound like a joke, but he could tell Chris was seeing right through him."
Larabee sighed. "Sarah's really pissed, Buck. And I just hate to think of Adam crying so hard he made himself sick. You can handle this on your own, right?"
Buck frowned. Adam was upset and Sarah was the one dealing with him, but it still wasn't like her to get so angry at Chris, especially about something he really couldn't help.
"Buck?"
Chris looked desperate. This didn't make sense.
"What's really going on, Chris?"
Chris raked his fingers through his blond hair. "Sarah just…she's been stressed out all week. Ever since that business with the back door."
Sarah had arrived home one day and found the back door wide open. Buck, and Chris too, for that matter, figured the wind had blown it open. They'd searched all around the place and nothing was missing, there was no evidence of an intruder. The door was old, an original part of the century-old farmhouse. You had to really slam it to make sure it was shut. There wasn't anything to worry about.
Sarah disagreed. She insisted she'd locked the door before leaving that morning, and even checked it to make sure it caught.
"She thinks maybe her dad broke in."
"Hank? That lock wasn't jimmied. Why would Hank want to break in, anyway? Hell, if he'd just get the stick out of his ass, he'd be invited in."
Buck couldn't remember the last time Hank Connolly had reached out to his daughter. He plumb hated Chris and hadn't even come to their wedding. Buck had given the bride away, as well as being best man.
The muscles in Chris' jaw tensed. "He'd have to do a hell of a job apologizing, before I'd let him in my house. There's no call for he said to Sarah after Adam was born. He can hate me all he wants, but Sarah and Adam don't deserve that." He dropped on the bed. "Sarah really didn't want me to come down here. I think she's nervous, just her and Adam home alone. Keeps talking about wanting a security system for the house. And she even thinks Hank might be stalking her, or something. She said she keeps seeing a blue truck like his when she's in town."
"Not at the ranch, right?" The Larabee place was kind of isolated, acres of grass and trees surrounding it. The nearest neighbor-Nettie Wells-wasn't really that far away, but the way the land sloped you couldn't even see her house.
"No, just in town a couple of times."
" Hank Connolly might be as crazy as bat shit, but he's not insane. I don't think he's suddenly decided to start stalking Sarah. What would that get him, anyway?
"Hell if I know. But Sarah's really rattled."
Buck considered it for a few minutes. He could understand Chris' need too get home early now to soothe his wife, but the truth was Buck would be in far more danger trying to get out of Mexico than Sarah and Adam would be for one more night. He was pretty sure he knew the problem anyway. He remembered those wild mood swings Sarah had when she was pregnant with Adam. About drove Chris nuts, especially those first months when the morning sickness had been more like, round the clock sickness.
He couldn't tell Chris about Sarah being pregnant. He was sworn to secrecy. Sarah was waiting until their anniversary dinner, which was in two weeks. Buck was staying with Adam so the Larabees could have a romantic dinner and a night at some big fancy hotel in downtown Denver. Sarah wanted their tenth anniversary to be perfect.
"You going to take that flight?"
"Will you be okay if I do?"
"I guess that's up to Petey Perez's buddies." Buck meant it as a joke. Well, except he didn't.
The color drained from Larabee's face.
7
77
777
If he had just let Chris go that night, hadn't been so self-serving.
Maybe Sarah and Adam would still be alive. The baby, too. She-Buck liked to think it was a little girl because he knew how much Sarah had wanted that to be true. She'd be almost three years old now.
If he had just let Chris go home that night.
If he had just let Chris go.
Chapter Three
Buck had vaguely thought he might spend Sunday driving around Houston looking at the sights, or possibly even trying to find the place he and his mother had lived when he was eight or nine and they'd spent time there. He had good memories of Houston. His mom had worked at an escort agency and all the employees and their children had lived in a nice apartment complex that was owned by the very old-money woman that had also owned the agency. There'd been a pool and a park with swings and other equipment, and for the first time Buck had had friends that he didn't have to lie to or watch everything he said for fear they'd find out how his mother supported him.
But his sleep was disturbed by nightmares and snatches of memory. At seven a.m. when his phone rang, startling him out of an uneasy doze, it was cold outside, gray and raining. By the time Buck had picked at the complimentary breakfast and turned on the news, there were flash floods all over the city-not, Buck gathered, an unusual occurrence but more than he wanted to try in his rental car. Huntsville was north of Houston, and he was already on the northern outskirts, so he decided to just stay put. There were football games and pay per view movies on the very nice TV, plus his hotel boasted an indoor pool, a hot tub and work out equipment. Buck spent a relaxing day, trying not to think of his interview with Cletus Fowler or Chris or work or anything else. He thought maybe he should write some questions down to ask Fowler, but then dismissed the idea. Fowler was going to tell him what he wanted him to know. Buck just hoped it was enough.
Trying not to think about Chris was tougher: Larabee kept calling. Starting at seven that morning (Buck almost threw the phone across the room) and then continuing every couple of hours all day. Buck thought about turning off the phone, but he feared he'd miss a call from the prison, or from Andy Griggs. He couldn't figure out why Chris was calling now when they really hadn't talked to each other in weeks. If there had been something really wrong, he figured Vin would have called as well, but he didn't and Buck was confused and annoyed. Why the hell was Larabee so determined to talk to him right now? Well, he could just wait. There was no way, if Buck talked with him now, that he wouldn't spill the beans about where he was or at least enough information that Chris would figure it out.
And Buck didn't want Chris to know anything just yet.
The rain slacked off toward sundown, and, feeling restless, Buck went out for a walk. There wasn't much to see: just a group of nice hotels, car parks and a few restaurants lining the road leading into the vast George Bush Intercontinental Airport. Buck looked at the sign for a few minutes, wondering why it was "Intercontinental" rather than "International", before turning around and going back the way he had come. There was a Waffle House on the corner. Feeling a desire for some comfort food, Buck went in, but his stomach rebelled at the chili and cheeseburger he ordered, so he pushed it away and took a piece of pie to go. The rain had started back when he left the cheerful yellow diner, and he jogged back to the hotel. Chilled, once in his room he stripped off his clothes, down to his boxers, and found a pair of shorts he'd packed. They weren't actually bathing trunks but they were snug and would do. He headed downstairs and the desk clerk pointed him to the pool. It was indoors and heated and no one else was there. Buck swam laps for over an hour, feeling long muscles stretch. The stress of the last months had taken a toll on his body. He followed up the swim by soaking in the Jacuzzi.
Once back in his room, he made short work of a shower and sprawled across the comfortable bed, flicking channels aimlessly. Nothing really interested him so he clicked the TV off and picked up the mystery novel he'd bought at the airport in Denver. It was a good, taut thriller, but even that failed to hold his attention. After realizing he'd read the same page three times and couldn't remember a damn thing about it, he gave up and closed the book.
Staring up at the ceiling above him, he thought uneasily of his appointment tomorrow. Why does Fowler want to see me, of all people? It wasn't the first time he'd wondered about that. How the hell does he even know me?
Well, there was an answer to that. Fowler was a hit man, apparently a very good one. He'd research the people surrounding his marks. But why kill Sarah and Adam? Who could have possibly wanted them dead?
They'd-all of them, himself, Chris, the detectives on the case, the ATF team and the FBI duo who had been called into help-always assumed Chris was the real target. Surely, Sarah and Adam had been an accident, collateral damage. It was Chris' truck, after all, that had been the one rigged with the fatal bomb.
Chris' truck, which his wife was driving. Taking her son to daycare and herself to school, all because her husband and his partner had taken her car on their trip. Sometimes, early in the wee hours of a sleepless night, Buck tortured himself with how things would be different today if she had just driven his Mustang that morning. It was at the ranch while he and Chris were in Mexico.
If they'd lived, he and Chris would never have got together…Buck tried to push that thought away. What kind of monster was he, to feel any happiness that if one of them survived, it was Chris? If Chris had died, and Sarah and Adam had lived...
...But Sarah couldn't drive a stick shift. Buck and Chris had both tried to teach her, over the years, but she just never could seem to get the whole rhythm of the clutch and the shift together.
So she and Adam were in Chris' truck that morning, the truck that had exploded in a ravenous firebomb that was so hot and so intense, it blistered the paint on cars nearby. A hot fire but contained-no one else had even been injured. Sarah and Adam had to have been killed instantly. At least Buck had hoped and prayed it was so. The thought of them being alive for even a few seconds-the pain, the fear, the panic- was more than he could deal with.
777
77
7
Adam's body was charred and in places the flesh was gone, but enough of his face remained intact that Buck could identify him, sparing Chris the horror. Sarah had been almost obliterated. Although everyone knew it had to be her, they waited for dental records and DNA before formally identifying her. Chris couldn't make the arrangements; he was barely able to survive through the day. Sarah's father-Hank Connolly-heard the news on the television before Buck could call him and called the house, ranting and screaming at the shell-shocked Chris.
Chris had a lot of family-his parents were both still alive, and he had siblings-but they were spread out quite a bit and none of them lived anywhere near Denver anymore. They were going to come in for the funeral, but when it came to making the actual arrangements, it fell to Buck.
So many people showed up at the memorial service. Friends from the DPD, parents of children Adam had been in school with, families of the students Sarah had taught over the years. People Sarah had known in college, even high school. Chris' entire family: his Dad, still with the erect military posture Buck remembered from the first time he'd met the man. Chris' mother, also named Sarah, her eyes swollen with grief.
The surviving members of their SEAL team showed up. That, like nothing else, forced the painful knot in Buck's chest into his stomach. Other Navy buddies turned up with their families too, but their brothers from the SEALs-they were spread around the world now and Buck wasn't really expecting them, but they were there and they insisted on being pallbearers.
Chris got rip roaring drunk the night before the service. Fortunately Buck was the only one there to see it, the Larabee family having decided to stay in a hotel. Hank Connolly and Chris "had words" at the funeral home and before Buck even realized what was going on a couple of SEALs had separated them. "She died because of you, Chris Larabee! If she had never married you she'd still be alive. You took my little girl away."
Chris' eyes were a searing green fire as he struggled to get away from the hands holding him back. "You were the one who never would come around, never wanted to get to know your grandson! You were dead to us a long time before…"
Buck got there then, fingers digging into Chris's shoulders. "Come on Chris, please, this isn't the time or place." He could remember seeing the horrified, maybe even disgusted looks on the people standing around, mostly Chris' family.
He'd brought Chris home soon after that and the grief-stricken husband and father started drinking, fast, sucking the whiskey straight from the bottle. He yelled and cried, most of it making no sense, until one phrase caught and tore at Buck's heart. "Damn it, I should have been here, they'd've been fine if I'd just come home that night. But no, we just had to spend another night in Mexico."
Buck flinched, as if Larabee had hit him with his fists instead of words. "I know. I know, Chris. It's my fault. I'm so sorry."
"Sorry won't bring 'em back, Buck." Chris' face pushed close to his, whiskey-laden breath almost overwhelming Buck. But the agony, the hatred in Chris' eyes froze him. "It's your fault, Buck. You killed them."
7
77
777
Buck jerked awake, the dream vanishing into whisps as the blaring of his cell phone cut through the air. The room was dark. Startled, breathing hard, it took him a minute to realize where he was and why. He didn't reach for the phone; he was shaking too hard.
The phone stopped ringing. Buck lay still, trying to get his breathing back under control. Finally, he moved, flipping on the light and reaching across to the silent cell phone. He clicked "Missed Calls" and sure enough, it was Chris. Again. He'd left a voicemail this time. After a little while, Buck clicked on the message.
Chris' voice tore though the room. "Damn it Buck, answer the damn phone! Where the hell are you? I-"
Buck switched off the phone. He couldn't listen anymore. Chris' voice sounded just like it did in his dream. Screaming that it was Buck's fault, that he had killed Sarah and Adam, that he was responsible for their deaths.
And Chris was right. Buck knew, it was his fault. If he'd just let Chris get on that plane…
If Chris had been gone home that night, Buck would have had to bury him. Maybe all of them. He could have lost his whole family. Lost Chris, before they'd ever had a chance.
He hated himself for even thinking that.
7777777
Andy Griggs was waiting for Buck in the prison receiving room, and shepherded him through the lengthy procedure involved in seeing a death-row prisoner. When it was all done, when Buck had signed so many papers his hand was cramping, Griggs led him through chilly corridors, deep into the prison to a plain, cinderblock-walled room. There was a mirror, two-way, Buck was sure; except for that the room was plain, no windows to the outside, a square table with a telephone on it and five or six chairs the only furniture in the room.
Nobody else was there yet, but Buck went ahead and sat down. He hadn't slept well at all, having nightmares of exploding trucks and Adam's tiny charred body and Chris' words tearing through his mind, time after time. It was your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
He felt sick to his stomach. He hadn't been able to eat any breakfast and the coffee he'd drunk-in a vain effort to clear his head, swirled acidly in his stomach. The dull headache from yesterday had intensified to a pounding behind his eyes that made him sincerely consider taking an ice pick and gouging it out.
He dreaded this meeting. What was Fowler going to say? What could he say, except what Buck already knew?
He'd made a decision, sometime during the long night, the long drive from Houston. He couldn't be with Chris, even if Chris could somehow forgive him and want him again. They'd never make it in the long run. There was too much grief there, too much pain. Too much guilt. Buck's guilt. Buck wasn't sure-when Fowler confirmed what he and Chris had known all along-if they could even be in the same city anymore. Maybe, if Buck left, the Team could pull Chris together. Hell, maybe he'd even realize how perfect he and Mary Travis would be together. Buck would miss them, miss JD and the others, but he could go somewhere else. Back to Las Vegas, hell maybe even Houston. There was a Remtef team there now, or…maybe a police force somewhere. All sorts of jobs he could do, really. Sure. Maybe. Or maybe it was time to tap that nest egg Ezra had been incubating for him, his savings and his retirement from the DPD and the money he'd saved from the Navy. Last time he'd checked, Ezra was doing a great job, even with the stock market fluctuations. Maybe there was enough to start his own detective agency somewhere, or maybe more likely buy into an existing one. He had SEAL buddies in that line of work. Spence and Bru, maybe they could use some help, especially since they were raising a kid now. Or there was that guy-Rick-Rick Something, he'd met last year. He still had the guy's card in his Rolodex at work. He had a PI business with his brother or somebody, in San Diego, maybe? Buck had been there several times when he was in the Navy. Nice place, close to the beach. There was that other firm, too, that a friend of JD's was involved in. Murray Bozozinsky or something. Computer genius and JD's idol. He was near the beach too; didn't he live on a boat or something? Near LA. Horrible traffic but…then there was the Cascade PD, up in Washington. He'd been there several times on assignment and didn't Josiah know someone up there, somebody with the PD? He remembered the older man talking about it. Or, hell, there was always another SEAL buddy, Sandy Ricks. He was out of the Navy now and running a charter service in Florida-not Florida. Massachusetts, maybe? If nothing else he could go to that place, Seacouver, was it? In Washington, maybe Oregon. That place that always seemed to have those decapitation murders going on. Maybe he could finally solve that mess.
There had to be somewhere he could go. Somewhere he could make a life for himself.
He couldn't even imagine a life worth living without Chris. But he'd have to live somewhere.
He heard a man's voice call his name and he startled. He'd been so lost in his thoughts he'd forgotten for a moment where he was, what was going to happen. Andy Griggs was frowning at him.
"You look like shit," was his blunt assessment. "You really don't want to be here, do you?"
"I have to be here," Buck pointed out. "I'm the one he wants to talk to."
"Yeah, about that," Griggs paused for a minute. "They wanted a whole bunch of people in here. I mean, there's a lot of questions, and after his confession, he hasn't talked to anybody, has refused to talk to anybody but you. But he said no. He wouldn't talk if there was anybody but you in here, or if anyone was watching in there." He gestured toward the mirror. "But, you know, it couldn't happen that way. At the very least there had to be a guard, maybe two in here. So he finally agreed, I could stay, and my boss, and someone from the prison system. But we can't talk, unless you ask us a question. He didn't want any notes taken. But he said we could videotape the two of you, under two conditions, that the videos wouldn't be released to the public, actually, he doesn't want anyone to see them until after the execution. And the other thing was, it was up to you if it could be videotaped. If you say no, then it won't happen."
Buck knew how law enforcement worked. He eyed the other man steadily. "Really."
"I know it sounds crazy, but that's the way it is. Trust me, no one is happy. My boss-Fowler's lawyer-he wanted to use the tapes, to maybe try to get his death sentence postponed, maybe even have his sentence commuted. Not that there's much chance of that, the governor knows it would be career suicide, and he has his eye on the Senate, maybe even running for president. But on the other side, the DA, every cop that ever worked one of his murders, the other families…they want to know. Fowler did the killing, but in most cases, he was hired for it. And the people who hired him, they're still out there and they're just as guilty as he is."
The mere thought of other people watching this made Buck cringe. Remembering was going to be bad enough. But then, the families, those detectives out there who'd worked a case until it went ice-cold…he could understand their feelings too. Buck was, no matter what else, basically a lawman.
Maybe even Chris would need to see it, to hear it with his own ears, to lay Sarah and Adam to rest in his mind.
He nodded. "OK, fine. You can tape it. But I swear, if I turn on TV someday and I see myself talking to this bastard on GMA or 48 Hours, or if it goes viral on the Internet, I'll sue the state of Texas for every oil well and longhorn steer it has." He wouldn't, of course. He didn't need money that way, and his vengeance would be much more-personal, in nature.
That meant more papers to sign. Buck couldn't really read the fine print, his headache was so bad. He signed anyway, trusting Griggs to keep to his word.
There was a shuffling outside and the door opened. Two men entered, one in an expensive business suit, one in more "business casual" attire. Then a woman, early 40s maybe, wearing a smart blue suit with a jacket and pencil skirt. Then came two men in prison uniforms, between them, a man wearing orange prison garb, moving at a shuffling gait due to the shackles on his ankles and wrists.
Cletus Fowler.
Buck stared at the man who had killed Sarah and Adam. He strained, searching his memory, trying to remember if he'd ever seen the man before. Five years ago, before the tragedy…the man was a hired killer, going after Chris. He had to be going after Chris. He must have been stalking him, he must have been around. Surely, Buck had seen him back then, somewhere, sometime.
It was obvious his months in prison had changed the man's appearance. His hair was shaggy, dark brown and gray pushing out the dyed blond. Prison pallor had replaced the tan he'd had in pictures at the time of his arrest. But his eyes were the same, light blue, icy, and piercing.
And Buck couldn't remember ever seeing him before. Just as he couldn't remember the man in the pictures he and Chris had pored over six months ago.
Fowler sat in the chair at the far end of the table, directly opposite Buck. The others were introducing themselves, but Buck wasn't listening to them, his attention on the prisoner. He knew essentially who they were. The older man in more casual clothes had a name badge identifying him as the prison warden. The dark haired man in the five-thousand dollar suit was no doubt Fowler's attorney. That left the woman who pulled out the chair next to Buck as someone from the Texas AG's office. The Houston office of ATF had offered to send someone with Buck, a "Brother agent for back up" as they'd put it, but Buck had refused. He might be wrong, but he trusted Andy Griggs already more than he'd trust a faceless, nameless, "ATF brother." His brothers were in Denver.
Fowler looked at him for several seconds. Then, slowly, a smile crossed his face. The guards who had brought him in were doing something with the chains, shackling his ankles and waist to the table while freeing his hands. Fowler rubbed his wrists together, just looking at Buck with that smile on his face. Finally, he spoke. "Detective…excuse me, Agent Wilmington. Buck. I've been looking forward to meeting you for a long time."
Buck had planned how he would start this interview, what he would say to this monster. But when he opened his mouth, what came out was "Why me?"
Fowler smiled more, showing his even white teeth. "Because, Buck, you're the only one question mark on my rather stellar career. You're the only one who got away."
CHAPTER FOUR
Buck slammed back in his seat. Air exploded from suddenly tortured lungs. His vision dimmed.
All he could see was a cloud of smoke, that charred little body on the Coroner's table. He remembered later, late that night, with Chris asleep thanks to an injection from the on call doctor, asleep but still crying in his sleep, the tears rolling down his face and dampening the sodden pillow. He'd left then, going back to the accident-the crime scene, walking and walking into the early hours, finding Sarah's purse, miraculously not even singed, caught in some low bushes yards from the site. Later, when the sun was coming up, he'd come across part of her arm, torn away from her body in the enormous thrust of the blast, just lying by the side of the road. It was her left arm, the hand still wearing Chris' rings, the solitaire Chris had gone into hock for, the narrow gold wedding band…
He heard words then, wasn't aware they were spilling from his own mouth. "What do you mean, I was the one who got away? What about Chris? You killed his wife, his child-" His children, Buck almost corrected himself, choking back the words because that was a secret he carried, something he could never bring himself to tell Chris, afraid that last little piece of the tragedy would be too much for his partner to bear.
"Chris?" Fowler's eyebrows rose. "Chris Larabee?"
Buck nodded, throat as dry as a Texas dust storm. "Your intended victim." His voice was creaky even in his own ears, but he waited for the answer. Because, surely this man wasn't saying, could not be saying-
"Chris Larabee was never my target. When I went to Denver, I had three targets. Sarah Larabee. Adam Larabee. And you. My employer was ruthless. And, I must admit, had no sympathy for just how hot Denver got after the woman and child died. Never did pay me what I was owed. Said the job wasn't over until you were dead as well.
"As I say, you were the only one who got away. Who ever got away. Buck Wilmington, a blot on my perfect record." He leaned forward, his curious eyes intent. "When I walk down the halls of this hell hole, the guards always call out 'Dead man walking.' You've been a dead man walking around for years."
Buck rocked backwards in the metal chair, a torpedo exploding in his chest. He couldn't breathe, could not talk. He just stared across the table at the assassin, his mind screaming, 'It can't be. I didn't hear him right. Not Sarah, not Adam!'
Fowler kept on talking, but Buck couldn't hear his words, didn't hear him, and interrupted, "You had a contract to kill Sarah? Adam? He was four years old!" He almost blurted out And she was pregnant! But caught himself just in time. That was something Chris didn't know. Buck could never bring himself to tell him. And he wasn't telling all these strangers, now.
Fowler paused, as if he was somewhat puzzled at Buck's shock. "I'm sorry, am I not making myself clear? I had a…well, you called it a contract, I always thought of them as 'assignments', to kill Sarah Larabee, Adam Larabee, and you." He looked at Buck with a Have you got it now? Like they just needed to get that established before they could move on to more important topics.
"Who?"
Fowler frowned. "I don't understand."
"Who the hell hired you to kill a woman and a child, damn it!"
"I must say, I thought you would have been more interested in finding out that you were intended to die, as well." Fowler looked mildly interested, and Buck wanted to tear him apart with his bare hands.
"Who hired you?" Buck ground out between tightly clenched teeth.
Fowler glanced at his fancy-dressed lawyer, and the man cleared his throat. "My client is willing to answer any questions you have for him about the situation in question, but not that one. He will not reveal any names of people who might or might not have been involved in his assignments."
It was so lawyer-like, and so insane, that Buck wanted to laugh, like this was some insane play. Or he wanted to kill the lawyer first, for being scum enough to represent Fowler. He shot his gaze back to the prisoner. He wanted to grab him, shake him until the answers came out. 'This has to be a nightmare. I can't be staring at the person…the monster who killed them, and I can't find out who or…' "Why?" he ground out.
"Why my client wanted you dead? And Mrs. Larabee and the child?"
"Yeah," Buck growled. "Why?"
"I'm not exactly sure." Fowler frowned, as if this was something he'd never pondered before. "I don't ask for reasons, you know. It isn't really any of my business. But in this case…I assume it had something to do with Chris Larabee. Revenge, maybe. I'm really guessing about that, I mean, I know it had something to do with him, because the orders were very specific, not to harm a hair on his head. I assumed, if I thought about it at all, that someone really wanted him to suffer. To take out the people he was closest too. And Detective-I'm sorry; he's a Federal agent now as well, isn't he? Agent Larabee had more than a few enemies."
"So did I," Buck pointed out. His head was pounding.
"True. But my client really never mentioned you, other than to want you dead." Fowler frowned. "The request was for as gruesome as possible. It made my job terribly difficult, as you can imagine." He stared at Buck as if he was expecting a pat on the back for a job well done.
Buck didn't know what to say next. He was sure, if he opened his mouth at all, he'd heave his guts on the conference table. Or choke.
The woman, who had been silent until now, cleared her throat. "I would like to ask-"
Fowler glared at her. "You don't get to ask anything." He nodded at Buck. "I'm talking to him."
She frowned. "I don't understand-"
"Then you haven't been listening," Fowler cut in. "He was the only one who ever got away from me. He's been unfinished business for years. Now, you all are going to put me to death, and that's fine. I guess I probably deserve it. But I don't owe you anything. The way I see it, I owe him something."
"Because you didn't kill me?" Buck yelped.
"Not that so much. Because you got away. You won. To the victor go the spoils, or some crap like that. I know you probably think I'm lower than scum, and I can't blame you, I guess. But-I was just doing a job. My job happened to be killing people. I never thought of myself as anything more than a businessman."
Buck shook his head. "You're nuts."
Fowler grinned suddenly. "Not legally, mores the pity."
Buck managed to suck in some air to his tight chest. "So. Why am I alive and they're…" he couldn't finish the sentence.
"Well, that's the story, isn't it? It was a tough job. I wanted to take all three of you out at once. Better that way, safer for me. You were a cop. Larabee was a cop. You were both popular with the other cops. And you'd both been in the military." He rolled his eyes. "Military types, they're worse than cops. Kill an ex-military guy and people come out of the woodwork to get revenge.
"I knew the lid would fly off Denver as soon as I made my move, and I'd have a better chance of getting away if I did all three of you and got the hell out of Colorado while everybody was dealing with the mess. Before the place was crawling with law enforcement.
"So that was my plan, I thought it'd be easy. You were like a member of the family, you spent more time at Larabee's place than you did your own." He shook his head. "But it didn't work out. I was under orders to not touch Larabee. There went blowing up the house or something on a weekend, because I couldn't bet on him not being there. I could have got you with the kid, or the mom and the kid, or any of you alone, but just the three of you together? Sure it happened, but it was spur of the moment. And my client wanted it dirty, not just a clean shot to the head or something. I mean, I could have killed just you five times the first day I was in Denver, shot you or stabbed you. But anything else-" he shook his head.
Somehow it didn't matter to Buck that his own life had been at risk. All he could think of was Sarah and Adam and the way they died. "Why firebomb Chris' truck, if you weren't planning on killing Chris?"
"Well, time was running out. The Larabee place was out in the middle of nowhere, and it was hard to get back there without somebody noticing. Sooner or later someone was going to notice me, there or hanging around the police station or at your place."
Sarah thinks her dad is hanging around. Buck remembered Chris saying that, in Mexico.
Fowler grinned. It was a pleasant grin. For a minute the room turned on its side and everything seemed crazy. Buck couldn't be sitting here, across from this ordinary-appearing gentleman who talked like he was selling Buck an insurance policy.
"I sublet a place across the street from your condo," Fowler went on, "And waltzed in and out of your building three times. No one ever seemed to notice. Your name was on the mailbox. I thought about wiring your place, but…well, to be honest, I don't like collateral damage. You had that nice lady living downstairs from you, the older woman. She was pleasant to me when I came in there once as a pizza delivery guy. I looked up the plans for your building and it was just too much risk, the floors looked like they would pancake if I set a bomb, and fire, well that was out too. I finally gave up on trying to do all three of you at once. I got into your place and poisoned almost everything in the refrigerator. Wasn't exactly what the client wanted, but you'd be dead, and if I was lucky they'd think it was food poisoning or something." He sighed. "But then you and Larabee took off to Mexico. Mrs. Larabee was driving the truck, you two had her car, and so one night I wired a bomb into the engine. Fixed it so it wouldn't go off until she'd driven five miles. I knew she have the kid with her the next morning and she'd drive the truck. Didn't know when the two of you were due back, but with any luck you'd eat or drink something in your apartment and keel over.
"But it didn't work out that way. I waited that morning, and saw the bomb go off. I was pretty sure they'd be killed right away, but I watched and made sure neither of them got out. Then I cleaned up my tracks and got out of Denver. Kept watching the news and waiting to hear you died too, but that never happened. I had another assignment, out of the country. When I got back, the client for your job was pissed royally. Wanted me to go right back to Denver and take you out. But it was like I figured, a hot zone-some of your old military friends hung around for weeks."
Buck wondered who that had been. As far as he knew, all the SEALs had left after the funeral.
"And there was always a chance someone would remember me from before, so I convinced the client to let it wait for awhile. Had a couple of other jobs, then when I thought maybe it was cooled off in Denver, I got in touch with the client. Well, I tried. Couldn't connect. And I never got paid for the part of the job I did, so I wasn't going to off you, run the risk and then never get paid for it. Like I said, I'm a businessman. Matter of fact, I didn't hear from that client until nine months ago. Called me, pretty as you please, and wanted you dead, right away, didn't care how I did it, just wanted you gone. I mentioned the money that was owed, and we had quite the argument. I finally said I'd go see what I could do after I finished up a job in Texas." He shrugged. "Well, I got caught on that job and then, well you know the rest. But I've always wanted to know why you didn't eat any of that poisoned stuff, and like I said, I kind of felt like maybe you deserved an explanation, so I got my lawyer to contact you, and here you are. So, I've told you my story, now, you tell me why you didn't die."
Buck had a question first. "So, if Chris and I hadn't gone to Mexico, or hadn't taken Sarah's car-"
"Wouldn't have made a bit of difference. If you or Larabee had been around, I still would have done it; I'd have just put the bomb in the Taurus. I'd been watching all of you for about a month by that point, and ever since school started, the routine was the same. Larabee'd leave around seven, and she and the kid wouldn't leave until eight. If you had been there the night before, you'd leave with Larabee, or at the same time if you were taking both your vehicles. You'd've both been gone an hour before she and the kid got in the car. Only thing different because you were gone was I put the bomb in the truck. And plus it was a Thursday morning. You never stayed over on Wednesday nights. Monday nights, or the weekends, sometimes, but never on a Wednesday." He shrugged. "Thought it would work. You'd be home at breakfast, the poison I used wasn't immediate or anything, but you'd've been feeling pretty sick by the time you and Larabee found out about the explosion. I figured the shock would probably finish you off. But you were in Mexico, so you didn't eat at home. And I was gone by the time you two got back. But still, why didn't you eat or drink something when you got back?"
If it hadn't been so terrible, it might have been funny.
Buck licked dry lips. "We got back into town and saw the…I couldn't leave Chris. I stayed with him, stayed out at the ranch until after the funeral. Just went back to my place for some clothes. The night of the funeral there was a bad storm. Knocked out the power at my place. When I finally went back, I just dumped everything in the refrigerator in the garbage. Nobody ever ate any of it."
Fowler nodded. "Well, that makes sense." He grinned at Buck again. "I'd have got you the next time." His grin vanished. "I need to warn you about something. My client is very determined. For some reason you fell off the radar back then. But you're back on the radar now. My client is determined to get rid of you, soon. So you might just want to watch your back."
There was something about the way Fowler was talking, like he was trying to avoid using pronouns. Buck sucked in his breath as a thought occurred to him. "Did a woman hire you?"
Fowler's eyes widened. He didn't say anything for a long minute. "It's very interesting you asked that."
"It was a woman, wasn't it?" Buck demanded.
Finally, Fowler nodded. "Yes. As a matter of fact, it was."
7777777
Everything after that was a blur. Buck knew Fowler said a few more things, but they didn't seem that important. The woman-and Buck had never caught her name or figured out exactly what she did-asked a few more questions, but Fowler refused to even acknowledge her. Finally, he looked at the guard at the door and announced he was ready to go back to his cell.
Somehow Buck found himself standing out in the parking lot, next to his rental car, holding the DVD of Fowler's "confession" in his hand. Andy Griggs was standing next to him, talking, but Buck couldn't hear him over the buzz in his own ears. He felt someone shake him, and looked down to see that Griggs was holding his shoulders.
"I said, are you okay?" Griggs demanded.
Buck closed his eyes and sagged back against the car. He looked down at the DVD clutched so tightly in his hand. "He said it didn't matter."
"What?"
"Fowler. He said it didn't matter, that Chris and me were in Mexico. That even if Chris had come home early, it wouldn't have made a difference. He was trying to kill Sarah and Adam."
"And you," Griggs pointed out. He was still gripping Buck's shoulders. Buck wanted to step away but he wasn't sure he could without crumpling to the ground.
"You don't look very good. This has to have been a shock. Why don't you let me drive you somewhere-there's a good restaurant not too far from here. You can have a meal, maybe a drink. You're going to spend the night here in Huntsville, aren't you?"
Buck shook his head. He stepped away from Griggs, still leaning against the car. "I have to go home. I've got to tell Chris."
"I thought your flight out wasn't until tomorrow. And you're white as a ghost. I don't think you should be driving anywhere right now.
Buck pulled the keys to his rental out of his pocket. "I've got to go. I-thanks, Andy, I appreciate everything, you know my number, you can call if you need anything." He stopped to catch his breath. "But I've got to go home, now."
"Wait!" Griggs seemed like he wanted to grab Buck again, but he kept his hands open, in the air. "Look, let me drive you to Houston. To the airport. Maybe you can catch a flight out tonight. If not, you can check into a hotel near the airport. They've all got shuttles that can get you to your flight on time."
That annoying buzzing was in Buck's ears again. He shook his head. "The car-" he murmured through numb lips.
"It's no problem. We can take it, and I'll call my son-in-law to pick me up at the airport. He has to come here tomorrow, anyway."
Buck nodded.
The next thing he knew, he was in the passenger seat of his rental and Griggs was filling the car up with gas at an Exxon "fuel and food mart". Buck fumbled for his wallet, but Griggs just waved his hand at him and strode into the store.
He was out five minutes later with a paper bag in one hand and a Styrofoam cup in the other. Opening the door, he handed Buck the cup. It was hot and Buck could smell coffee. "You look like you need this," Griggs stated, starting the car. He put the paper bag on the console between them. "Bottled water, candy, crackers," he listed. He flashed a bright smile. "Provisions for a road trip."
Buck forced a smile of his own. "Thanks."
Griggs seemed to realize he wasn't talking about the coffee and snacks. "Purely self interest. Bad news if you wrecked your car."
The burned-out hulk of Chris' truck. Adam's tortured body. Sarah's charred bones, all that was left of her…
7777777
Later, Buck didn't know if he'd fallen asleep or maybe just grayed out. When he became aware of thing again, he was in the passenger seat of his rental car and the clock on the dashboard said three in the afternoon. He frowned, glancing at his watch. It didn't seem possible that it could be that late. In one way, he felt this day had gone on forever, in another he was surprised it was so late. He'd arrived at the prison around ten; he hadn't realized he'd been in there so long.
Griggs was wearing dark sunglasses that shielded his eyes. At some point when Buck had been out of it, the other man had turned the radio on and was tapping his hand against the steering wheel in time with the song. It was vaguely familiar and he listened to the refrain:
I remember long ago-
Oh when the sun was shining
Yes, and the stars were bright
All through the night
And the sound of your laughter
As I held you tight,
So long ago
This is the time,
This is the place
So we look for the future
But there's not much love to go round
Tell me why, this is a land of confusion
He snorted. "Land of confusion. Pretty much sums up my life right now." He closed his eyes, leaning back into the headrest. It felt like a hot knife was stabbing through his eyes right now, the throbbing in time with his pulse. He shivered, suddenly cold, although the morning clouds had drifted away and the sun was shining, reflecting off the lake they were crossing.
"Fowler left more questions than he answered?"
"Something like that." Buck didn't want to think about Fowler right now. He didn't want to talk. Reaching up, he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease muscles tight with tension. He wished he'd pocketed the bottle of Advil he'd bought in the hotel's canteen last night, rather than packing it in his suitcase. His jacket would be a good thing, too. It was freezing. Did Griggs have the air conditioning on?
"It wouldn't have made any difference if you and Larabee had been home or not."
"Have any idea who could have hired him?"
"Haven't thought on it much, yet."
A woman had hired Fowler. He couldn't wrap his mind about that, not now. All he could think of, all he could hear in his mind was Fowler's voice, saying over and over, like it was on a constant loop, "It wouldn't have made any difference."
No difference.
No difference.
No. Difference at all.
Your fault.
My fault.
No difference.
He wasn't even aware when he slipped into a doze.
7777777
Maybe it was his badge, maybe it was something in his face or voice, but Buck somehow got a seat on a flight to Denver, leaving at eight-thirty. He had carried his only bag on the flight coming out, but the ticketing agent told him he'd have to check it this time. "It's a small plane," she pointed out.
It was a plane, that was the point, and it was going to Denver. Buck didn't argue, he checked the bag and joined the long line waiting to be cleared by TSA.
When it was finally his turn, he fumbled with his wallet and dropped it twice before showing it to the bored attendant. It seemed like the man studied his driver's license and then his badge and federal ID for hours before he got around to handing it back and waving Buck on through. Then he forgot to take the change out of his pocket and winced as the alarm shrieked. 'Why the HELL is that alarm so loud!'
When he'd cleared security-and, damn it, why was that officer looking at him like that? -He made a beeline for the first shop he saw; grabbing a small bottle of Ibuprofen and an overpriced bottle of water to replace the one he'd had to trash before going through the security check. He picked up a paperback novel by an author he'd never heard of before and then, a couple of magazines. He had hours to wait before his flight; he'd have to fill them somehow.
One way to kill time would be to eat something. Not that he was hungry, but he didn't think he'd eaten at all today. Maybe that was why the headache was so bad. The little pill bottle only had a dozen tablets in it and he swallowed half of them, washing them down with the cold water. He ordered soup, tried to eat it, but after less than ten spoonfuls he pushed it away, his stomach churning.
By the time Buck made it on to the plane he knew he was sick. By the time he got off the plane in Denver he didn't know much of anything. His whole being was focused on one task. Find Chris.
He had written down the number and space of where he parked the truck on the back of the ticket and managed to find it. He handed his credit card to the person working at the tollgate and then got on I-70, heading in the direction of the ranch.
He wasn't even aware of time passing, his hands locked on the wheel, eyes forward, just concentrating on getting where he needed to be.
Vin's Jeep and Chris' Ram truck were both parked in front of the shed Chris used as a garage. Buck pulled in behind them, and he got out and headed for the house. When he passed the barn, though, all the strength seemed to drain from him and he sagged against the rail fence. In spite of the security light on top of the barn, the area seemed darker than usual.
He was still standing there, clinging to the post, when the porch light came on up at the house. A minute later, the door opened, light spilling out. A figure appeared on the porch, and a voice asked, "Buck? That you?"
It was Chris' voice.
Buck pushed himself forward and took a couple of shaky steps; the figure raced down the steps and closed the distance between them rapidly, catching Buck by the shoulders. "Buck?" Chris asked. "Are you drunk?"
Buck frowned, because why would Chris think that? "No," he forced out.
"Where have you been?" Chris demanded. "I've been calling you for three days!"
Buck took hold of Chris' jacket, clinging to the man. "It wasn't my fault. It wasn't your fault. It wouldn't have made any difference."
"What-damn, Buck you're burning up!"
The words made no sense to him. Burning? No, he hadn't burned. Sarah and Adam had, but not him. Because he wasn't with them. Why wasn't Chris listening? He pulled the DVD case out of his pocket and shoved it into Chris' chest. "No one's fault. Not mine, not yours."
Chris caught the case in one hand and put the other around Buck. "OK," he said soothingly. "Let's get you into the house and into bed, and then you can tell me what the hell you're talking about, okay?"
Bed, yes bed sounded wonderful but Chris still wasn't getting it. "Sarah. Adam," Buck forced out between chattering teeth, and when had it got so cold? "Not my fault. Not your fault."
He got a quick look at Chris' shocked expression before everything went black and he slid into the darkness.
To be continued in Just One More Night.
.